


Wedding #5

by ShannonXL



Series: Shit My Sherlock Does [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fem!Sherlock, Female Sherlock Holmes, Lesbian Irene, Vignette, girl!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Irene are married. More than once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wedding #5

This time, they meet in Wisconsin.

It’s mundane. Unexpected. The dairy capitol of the world. Irene doesn’t have any enemies there. And Sherlock. Sherlock has a few acquaintances. She once disproved a rumor regarding the source of a vicious strain of bovine influenza. She’s owed a few favors.

It _is_ mundane. There are no grand ballrooms. No glamorous, 12th century churches with vaulted ceilings and a vial of Christ’s blood among the treasured relics at the altar. It is not a pleasure cruise, or the alleged serenity of the Alps. There will be no reception in Monet’s garden, overlooking the water lilies in the French starlight. The invitations were _not_ lost in the mail. All the family in attendance is carried in their blood, in the relative curve of a smile and a tone of iris grandfathered in, having skipped a few generations. No one living can be bothered to know. There will be no celebrity attendees with infamous seating arrangements, chattering famously about politics and main courses. There are no main courses. No concert pianist. No honeymoon. 

Nothing old, nothing new. Nothing borrowed. Nothing blue.

They wear _unexpected_ , a borrowed shade, entirely foreign, because detective stories are gritty and pulpy. They take place in cities and bayous, not county fairs and dairy farms. And spy thrillers, those are grand adventures, to be found in the back corners of the royal palace, the closeted private rooms of DC and Rome, the chilly evenings in Moscow and Prague. Spies don’t speak _American_ , not unless they’re bristle-cheeked gunmen willing to die another day. Irene is none of that. 

Which is why they choose to fall in love there, barefoot in the soft grass, a lone sow lowing nearby, the smell of hay and cream and summertime the sole witness to a sacrament only somewhat holy. Fingers tangled. Lips curled. Eyes bright. An especial meeting place so many times removed from the familiar even the smallest detail, the quality of the air, the inconvenience with the car and the ditch, the sound of grasshoppers, the smell of take-out, the threat of rain, all of it is rich with novelty. 

Solemn vows made to moonlight. Carried on the waves of a gentle wind. 

Humid and sweaty and syrupy and sweet, breath warm and sour and hot and sweet, words mingled with gasps and voices and whispers sound like angels and secrets and heavens and sweet. Promises. Endings, forced as if at knifepoint, forcing new beginnings, forcing flames. Laughter like music, and the symphony is sweet. 


End file.
